


Crop Circles in the Carpet

by S J Hartsfield (abbykate)



Series: Hide and Seek [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, John is a mother hen, M/M, Sherlock is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbykate/pseuds/S%20J%20Hartsfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in the back of his mind, he chided himself for his weakness.  He hadn’t passed out in years.  Must get up.  Must keep thinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crop Circles in the Carpet

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the scheme: Jill decided that she, abbykate, and S.J. Hartsfield should all take lines from Imogen Heap's "Hide and Seek" and use them as titles for drabbles. They each picked five. They will be posted as a series, in the order in which they fall in the song.

He hadn’t slept in nearly ten days.  John fretted, of course, but the case was proving _far_ too fascinating to put his mind to rest.  Serial killer, always his favourite.  No discernible motive or connection between the victims (yet); the only way Lestrade had even known the murders were related was because of the symbol found at each scene – a circle divided into quarters.  It appeared in any number of places, scratched into the floorboards, scribbled on a napkin, and, in one gloriously macabre instance, carved into the abdomen of the victim himself.  It was _magnificent_.

John had slept a grand total of sixty-four hours since they’d begun.  He’d been counting.  It was truly disappointing, but that’s humanity for you.  Typical.

He paced the sitting room, ignoring the enormous bat hanging from the ceiling, leathery wings folded about its body as it too slept.  Hallucinations – he’d had them before, a common result of sleep deprivation, but he’d long since trained his mind to recognize them for what they were and push them aside.  Apart from the bat (a relatively minor vision, considering), he’d actually never felt better.  If he could just grasp the connection he was missing –

Blackness.  He opened his eyes, only the slightest bit, considering the whorls in the pile of the rug.  Oh.  He was on the floor.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he chided himself for his weakness.  He hadn’t passed out in years.  Must get up.  Must keep thinking.

Socked feet padded into his line of sight.  Another illusion?  No.  John.  Strong hands on his upper arms, John saying, “Up you get” from a very far distance.  He wasn’t quite a dead weight, but he felt like a marionette, strings cut, limp and useless.  His arm slung around stalwart shoulders, bare feet hardly touching the ground (patterns in the carpet, shapes formed by movement, what did it matter?).

Soft on his face.  His pillow.  In bed.  God, he could feel himself drifting again and he hated it, hated it, why couldn’t he go on?  Ten days wasn’t so long.  He’d only seen a bat so far, this shouldn’t happen.  “Idiot,” someone said, underwater. 

He felt something silky and strange on his temple.  A mouth.  No. 

More hallucinations.  Surely.


End file.
